Friends and Nemeses
by AngelCeleste85
Summary: Sequel to "Journeys" (which is being written at the same time). Nadir isn't quite the friend Erik thought he was - he's come to Paris to bring Erik back to Persia.
1. Notice

Disclaimer: Must I say this again? If I own the Phantom of the Opera, then you're an alien in a green helmet with a funny nasal voice and a dislike of talking gray rabbits. No ka-booms please, Marvin.  
  
A/N: I did try to research this one. Honestly, I know that the Rue de Rivoli comes up to the Place de l'Opera from the south and runs along the outside of the Tuileries and down to the Seine for a way (or at least, it did on the maps of 1860's Paris). For the life of me, I cannot find the Rue Scribe, so I'm arbitrarily putting it on the north side for purposes of this story. Don't complain, I'm using artistic license again! ::drags out a blank sheet of paper and waves it around::  
  
## Nadir's thoughts ##  
  
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"Friends and Nemeses" by AngelCeleste85  
  
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Ch. 1 - Notice  
  
He looked up at the building before him, feeling a little bit of awe in spite of himself.  
  
Nadir Khan was one of the few people who had seen this building long before the first shovel had turned the first earth in its construction. He remembered seeing the blueprints that his old nemesis had drawn, and the memory made him smile.  
  
"You arrogant son of a three-headed goat, you managed it after all." the daroga said slowly to himself, but addressing the Opera's unseen architect with a smile hidden in his beard. ## Did you really think that the news of a building like this would not get back to Persia? He would not tolerate such a slap in the face. If I know you correctly, the outside is rather drab, but the inside will be as lavish as anything the khanum could dream of. ##  
  
He shook his head and smiled. ## But I have to hand it to you, my old friend, my old nemesis, you have never been anything less than a genius. Too smart for your own good, if you ask me, though you never do. You would have stayed out of so much more trouble if you had, but the Shah does not enjoy being made a fool of. I wish it could be otherwise, my old friend. ##  
  
The Chief of Secret Police to the Shah of Persia moved forward through the thin crowds in the Place de l'Opera towards the broad, squat building that towered over him, ignoring the shrieks behind him of a woman at the flower stand who apparently had just been robbed. Even if it were Persia, he was not sure he would have investigated. Not right now, anyway, and besides, a street rat would be incredibly difficult for him to track down and quite unproductive. No, leave it to the local excuse for police.  
  
## We have much to speak of while I bring you back to Persia. I would very much like to know how you managed to build your own palace in the middle of Paris, and with the government's money and full backing. ##  
  
Upon reaching the front steps of the great Opera House, Nadir paused. ## No, I do not think I will go that way just yet. If I remember correctly, old friend, you do have a weakness: you always leave an escape route if there is any way to manage it. In this city, I would say on the north side, where you can leave most easily without being seen. ##  
  
It wasn't difficult to find the door that opened out onto the street at ground level from the side. Nadir noted the street – the Rue Scribe. Writer Street. ## My friend, you grow predictable in your old age. You seem like to make this too easy for me. ##  
  
Satisfied, the Daroga took a careful note of the few shadows cast by the noontime sun. It wasn't likely, but he nodded to the deepest ones he could find anyway and touched his hat in the European way. ## Darius had better find accommodations in this city soon, ## he thought as he went back to the main entrance and waited patiently for his servant.  
  
Above and behind him, a black shadow moved off of the roof, unseen. Only the whisk of a long, heavy cloak caught in the breeze of a swift turn caught the eyes of two street urchins across the plaza who, caught up in their daily business despite the continued protests of the woman at the flower stand, took no further notice of the pigeons on the roof of the Opera.  
  
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The urchins and the screaming woman at the flower stand are cameo appearances – for now. They may or may not stay that way. Hope you like this: feed me?  
  
AC 


	2. Winds of Change

Friends and Nemeses, Ch. 2 by AngelCeleste85  
  
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Disclaimer: Whatever it is, I didn't do it, I don't own it, please don't sue me.  
  
Author's Note: Coming back from a busy hiatus (moving to a new area, trying frantically to find work, learning to live with two new roomies), I don't have too much to offer y'all. I know, you guys have got to be wondering what's up with "Lachesis" – all I can say is two words: writer's block. So, I've started on another good one to get writer's block on later – great, something else to leave y'all hanging on. Oh, well. I do know where this one's going and how it'll end. Getting there might be a pain, but I trust Nadir'll come up with something...  
  
// Erik's thoughts //  
  
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Ch. 2 – Winds of Change  
  
The sun was warm this morning and though the brisk breeze plucking at Erik's cloak told of winter's touch still hanging on, cumulus clouds over the sky promised a lovely spring day for any Parisians interested in it. Which Erik was, for once, perched atop Apollo's lyre.  
  
He smiled a little, reveling silently in the sensation of flight that the breeze gave him as it tugged gently at his clothing. This was exactly the sort of morning he loved – fair, with clouds to hide the sun's full brilliance and provide some shadows to hide in, and warm enough to take the chill of the cellars out of his bones. It was still too early in the season for the Conservatory boys to come out and splash around in the catch basin up here and nobody else cared to take the fly's path to the door in the roof of the backstage area, so Erik had the roof to himself. Not that he would have stayed otherwise.  
  
Today the wind tugged also at a portfolio that he had brought with him, fastened and lying on the rooftop where he had laid it carefully. It contained only a few pages of a new composition, something light and lilting that Christine could likely sing soon.  
  
// It would be better if a coloratura took the role, but those are rare and far-between. Besides, her voice has not yet reached full maturity. // Erik smiled again, wondering at the back of his mind is Christine had everything it took to become one of those incredibly rare, flexible soprano- sopranos. // I would almost prefer the range of a contralto to work with, but coloraturas are simply too much talent to waste. //  
  
Beneath him, the plaza was, as ever, nine-tenths empty. Except for the few people at the fringes who seemed too afraid to approach the massive building, or those on other business who seemed not to care where their path took them so long as it was not *through* the opera house. Or the street rats, with nothing better to do than beg and pick pockets – Erik's keen eyes watched one particularly skilful youth slip a woman's purse out from under her arm as she haggled with the keeper of the flower stand: the scamp escaped long before the theft was noticed, and Erik applauded silently even as he shook his head. // Children should not have to resort to that – but if one is to do something, one may as well be good at it, // he thought, remembering the harder days, before the gypsies... // One has to eat. //  
  
And, as ever, there were the tourists come to gawk for a few minutes at the Palais Garnier and say they had seen Paris. By horseback they came sometimes, by carriage more often, but most, unaware of the dangers posed by the innocent-seeming urchins even now, came by foot.  
  
One such tourist in particular caught his intense gaze, dressed in garb that he had not seen in over fifteen years...  
  
// It can't be! //  
  
Eyes narrowed, Erik threw himself down from Apollo's upraised arm in a flash and pressed as close to the masonry border as possible, tucking the cloak in around him. The suit – and the cloak – would need brushing later, but for now he ignored it. The figure far below him, examining the façade of his home, had his full attention.  
  
A white caftan – linen, by the way it draped – stood out clearly against the dark, weathered cobblestones that made the floor of the great plaza, and a dark beard hung below the deep brown face. As if the turban was not enough identification enough...  
  
// There could be any number of Persians in the world, and any given number of them could be in Paris at this moment for any reason. The odds are greatly against it being the one I actually know. //  
  
But that one that he knew would have a very good reason for coming to Paris now.  
  
Then the figure turned – most certainly it was male – and the first step he took revealed the limp that Erik remembered so well. Erik himself had dressed the accompanying scar – if it was indeed the Daroga of Mazanderan come to call.  
  
// Do not be foolish, Erik, any given number of male Persians in Paris could be favoring their right leg for any given reason! //  
  
But the odds were disappearing fast.  
  
"And Nadir would want me under his eye at all times, curse that pig-kissing busybody to the sands," Erik muttered under his breath, thoroughly annoyed. // Who died and appointed you my conscience, thank you very much? Or should have died before making that unfortunate decision? //  
  
The Persian man below was circumnavigating the building now, and Erik stood and followed him. Nadir would know that Erik was there and would also know that Erik knew of his presence also: hiding was of no use. If it was not, well, no accidents would have to be arranged for the aging policeman...  
  
Erik chuckled suddenly and tipped an imaginary hat in return to the Persian's off-target gesture. "Well met again, you arrogant son of a three- headed goat. Although, if I know you as well as I think I do I'm already at least a step behind." His strange eyes narrowed. "A problem I intend to rectify." He whirled, and a moment later the rooftop was deserted.  
  
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To Be Continued...  
  
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End file.
